


Garter

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [8]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Slapping, Teasing, odalisque verse, sock garter kink, surprisingly healthy sex considering who this is, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“About to be fucked by a man in garters,” Will laughs, and Hannibal steps closer, one measured step at a time.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Language.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I don’t think I’ve been more turned on in my life.”</i>
</p><p>Will has missed Hannibal's gratuitous dressing up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garter

**Author's Note:**

> For the unbelievable [hughdancysexual](http://hughdancysexual.tumblr.com/) who requested sock garter smut.
> 
> Enjoy, darling girl, thank you, always, for your unending support!

Hannibal has not survived a free man for as long as he has by being unaware.

Though he has not seen Will since returning home, he knows the boy is there. The garden perhaps, sunning himself like a cat. Lazing in bed, like the spoiled child that he is. Not in the kitchen, where Hannibal made himself an americano, despite having only just left Italy. Not in the study, where goes now to review the psychiatry journals that have appeared in his time away, tucked under one arm as he makes his way to the balcony.

Not in the garden, Hannibal notes, leaning out over it to light a hand-rolled cigarette, specially grown Yednije tobacco from Turkey, cured with honey. He curls the smoke across his tongue, savoring the transient sweetness, and exhales through his nose to allow the taste to simmer on his palate before he settles into his chair, overlooking the sparkling Ionian sea.

He enjoys his travels, fingers spanning over the finely tailored suit that fits to him as if it were a second skin. It has been too long since he’s indulged himself in this way, having abandoned the ostentation of suits for something more befitting of their new home - well-woven cottons and soft linens, elegant loose drapes to allow the wind to carry the summer heat away. It is a decadent and unnecessary indulgence to have bought a suit for himself again, checked in rustic chestnut and autumn orange, but he feels - for the moment - entirely at ease, a version of himself gone too long unvisited.

At ease, that is, until his skin prickles once more with the sensation of another near him. Behind him now, on quiet cat-feet, observing him in silence. Hannibal sighs another plume of fragrant smoke, as he peels open the first journal to peruse.

“Hello, Will.”

For a moment there is no response, a strange rudeness Hannibal is fairly sure he has taught Will out of, now, but curious regardless. He does not turn, and for a moment more, Will does not move. And when he speaks, it almost makes sense why he had silenced himself in the first place.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter.” Will’s voice is at once lower and entirely more coy. A playful thing, a voice he used when talking to Chilton, when Hannibal had listened to his boy struggle with the plug in him at an appointment, phone on speaker in his bag. The voice runs down his spine like delicate fingers, and he hears Will step closer, feet clicking bare against the tile. “You’re home early.”

Will walks like a cat when he’s in view, just up on his toes, almost bouncing from foot to foot in the most graceful way before he sets his hands on either side of Hannibal, curls his fingers slowly, deliberately, over the arms of his chair before leaning in with a smile.

“What did I do to earn this surprise?”

“Very little, I’m sure,” Hannibal murmurs, tilting his chin upward to regard his boy. A thin white shirt, only several buttons bothered with, hangs from one bare shoulder, long shirt tails obscuring the shorts beneath. Hannibal taps his cigarette, allowing the ash to blow away unheeded, and returns it to his lips.

Will’s pupils darken nearly all the blue of his eyes, and a blossom-bright blush blooms over his cheeks. Crimson lip held between his teeth, Hannibal can do little more than regard his boy with a passive curiosity as to his immediate arousal.

Insatiable boy.

“I finished my business, and so I returned,” answers Hannibal, the muscles beneath his eyes drawing up in amusement as he sets his cigarette against his lips. He crosses his legs, sliding one elegantly across the other in such a way that forces Will - leaning over him - to spread his own. “There is Tartufo di Pizzo for you in the freezer,” Hannibal tells him, pausing before he amends, "The kitchen, not the basement."

Will smiles, delighted by the fact that Hannibal - again - brought him sweets from abroad, and something so elaborate too, so delicate and beautiful. He leans in as though to kiss the man, breathing in the aromatic smoke he exhales before taking his cigarette with delicate fingers to breathe in himself.

“Thank you.”

He returns the cigarette to Hannibal’s lips before directing his eyes down, taking the man in fully in his new suit, a luxury, an entirely novel thing here, with them, now, before he just stops, body poised, still partially on his toes, legs spread and shirt in danger of slipping off his shoulder as he looks, just looks, at where the leg of Hannibal’s pants has ridden up enough to reveal -

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes wide, lips widening as his entire expression lights up like a kid at Christmas. Garters. Motherfucking sock garters that Will has not seen on Hannibal in years. The things had always amused him, astounded him, and entirely, without fail, turned him on. Archaic and ridiculous things that Hannibal would obviously have, obviously want and seek out specifically.

Will makes a soft noise, almost catlike, and sets his feet wider apart before slowly sinking to his knees before the older man.

Hannibal has also not survived for as long as he has by questioning when luck turns in his favor.

Though a brow lifts, Hannibal leaves the journal open across his lap, coiling the smoke slowly over tongue before releasing it in a trickle. Will sits with his hands on his thighs, curls windswept into his face, but as he reaches to touch the older man, Hannibal hums.

Will stops, licking his lower lip between his teeth, and returns his hand to his lap.

Power, coursing electric over his skin, as Hannibal watches Will sit so obediently. The boy has always been quick to learn whatever game develops between them, and they have never felt the need to plan, to script, to discuss anything so tedious as rules or boundaries. There is, always, an absolute trust - that the other will take what they need to satisfy themselves, and that the other’s destructive willingness for utter self-sacrifice will provide it.

It is complicated.

It is intimate.

It could exist nowhere but with the other.

Hannibal does not allow his smile to show anywhere but in the barest movement of his brows, the lines beside his eyes. Will notices, blue eyes bright as he takes in every microcosm of movement on the older man’s face, understands and responds to it, now with a press of his tongue between his lips, and a little smile.

Slowly, Hannibal unsettles his leg. The hem of his trousers - a light wool, softly draped but sturdy - slips low enough to hide the garter, with a flash of silver suspender clip. Hannibal draws a breath as Will sighs his displeasure, and sets the toe of his shoe beneath Will’s chin.

Bespoke Oxfords, seamed and stitched by hand in bright persimmon orange calf leather. He visited the shoemaker three times: once for the form and measurements that took the better part of a day, again to receive them, and wear them through the city for several days to let the shoes conform to his feet, and lastly to complete the antique finish that shines sleek as oil on water across the surface.

Hannibal has always been fond of things made only for him.

His eyes narrow in pleasure, and he lifts his toe to tilt Will’s chin just a little higher.

Will goes, obedient, eyes narrowed and dark beneath the lashes as Hannibal moves him. He has always enjoyed Hannibal in his bespoke outfits, looking entirely unreal in them, beautiful and poised, composed, with the monster just beneath the skin, just rippling beneath it until he unleashes it with gentle promises to naive boys.

He wants to touch but doesn’t, just waits for the moment. Ten days, this time, he had waited for Hannibal to get back, enjoying the islands in the meantime on his own. There is always the sweetest pleasure in seeing each other again, the time they take to remember and remind, nuzzling close and almost scenting as wolves would, until they are each other’s again.

“Those shoes are ridiculous,” Will tells him fondly, lips curled in a smile as he watches Hannibal’s eyes, his expression, the way he has tanned, just a little, while walking through the old cities in the sun.

Now, Hannibal allows his lips to mirror the curve in Will’s own, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. He presses his tongue against his lips to savor the taste of tobacco that lingers there, before pinching out the cherry and setting it aside, atop his journals, removed from his lap so that the older man can lean a little more forward.

The slap comes swift, enough to snap Will’s head to the side, before harsh fingers jerk Will back into place by his chin. His tone is just as unwavering, almost gentle, as he speaks softly to his wide-eyed and insolent boy. “These shoes are bespoke to the stitch, of rare leather and rarer processes, perfected over decades. These shoes, Will, are exactly what I wished them to be. And so when you insult something that I have had designed to meet my own preferences, you insult _me_.” Hannibal strokes a thumb across Will’s parted lips, before stretching back into his chair, a movement that would seem effortless but for the knowledge that every muscle is pulled taut now, carefully controlled and moderated.

His own body, just as bespoke as his clothing.

“They also cost more than you have ever made, inherited, or gleaned through illicit scholarships in your entire sordid life,” Hannibal adds with a slight smile, unmistakably fond despite the sharp edge in his words. He settles the pointed toe of his shoe against the hollow of Will’s throat, above which fine wool socks, rich chocolate brown, stretch up his calf. “Touch. The shoes, and the socks,” he murmurs, eyes glinting dark pleasure. He knows precisely what the boy is after, and he will make him earn it.

Will watches him, breaths coming shorter, now, cheek singing with pain, reddening with the pink imprint of Hannibal’s palm. He swallows, brings one hand up to carefully settle against the man’s leg before leaning in to draw his lips over the leather, eyes up. It’s gentle, the worship that Hannibal had intended for the item, soft lips and just the hint of wetness when Will allows one lip to drag against the stitching, up over where the laces curl pristine and tight through the holes.

In truth, the shoes are entirely Hannibal, gaudy to the point of being entirely classy, bright and exquisite, unusual and one of a kind. Will quite adores them, will seek, with soft kitten-sighs and puppy-eyes for a pair of his own when Hannibal goes to Italy again. For now, though, he continues the motions of lips and tongue until Hannibal is satisfied, with a pleased hum, a soft sound of allowance to continue up.

So Will does.

Nuzzling warm up against the dark socks, now, knowing Hannibal entirely handmade as well, warm and sturdy, comfortable things. Will gathers his lips together in a gentle kiss against his ankle, fabric warming between his lips until he licks at it, leaves a small curve of damp dark when he pulls away, nuzzles higher. His breathing is erratic now, eyes wide still and heart beating quick as he sits up higher. Worships.

Hannibal has always been fond of things made only for him.

He watches down the length of his nose as Will breathes hot against him, hands lifted to cradle the older man’s foot, balanced neatly on his knee where his legs are crossed. Hannibal’s hands remain unfolded, resting against the arms of the chair, until he himself appears to be a thing to be worshipped, rather than what clothes him.

Will’s sigh shudders hot and he presses his trembling fingers over Hannibal’s calf, the powerful curve of muscle that flares strong beneath his little hands. The hem of Hannibal’s pants rides against Will’s wrist as he reaches higher, seeking with fingertips for where wool meets skin and where the suspender clip fastens to hold them in place -

He yelps, as Hannibal snares him by the hair and bends him, suddenly, forcing his fingers to curl and snare on soft wool, eyes wide and lips parted in pain, desire, both at once. “I know what you want,” Hannibal murmurs, with a savage smile made deceptively soft. “Ask me, and I will decide if you have earned it, after you’ve been so insulting.”

Will bites his lip against saying what immediately comes to mind and smiles instead.

He doesn’t even know what he wants beyond to see the damn absurd things, to touch them, feel them tight against Hannibal’s legs. He doesn’t know what he wants beyond baring the man to leave him just in those and his socks and ridiculous shoes and have him press Will into the bed until he cries from it.

He smile lingers, though his eyes glaze over and it takes a moment before he focuses again, knowing Hannibal can read him as well as any book in any language.

“May I touch higher?” He asks, working the words together so they fit into the categories of chastised and teasing both, delighted at Hannibal’s slow raising of his eyebrow as he waits. “Allow my mouth to repent against skin and learn respect again.”

Hannibal hums, easing his grip to stroke through the soft tangled curls instead, and his fingers follow the still-red mark glowing hot on Will’s cheek, to lift his chin. His brow raises a little loftier, and Hannibal tilts his hand to force Will higher onto his knees, head bent beautifully back in submission. “In only ten days, you have forgotten how to be polite - how to show appreciation, Will, for beautiful things. Do you think yourself the only beautiful thing that I own?” Hannibal murmurs, the muscles beneath his eyes drawing up in delight. “Do you think that you deserve what you ask of me?”

He watches as Will’s throat bobs, in strain from holding the position into which Hannibal has bent him, in desire for the man who wields such power over him. Elegant and serene, Hannibal’s smile widens when Will shakes his head.

“I don’t deserve it,” his boy admits, eyes glittering with pleasure.

“Humility is a hard-won skill,” answers Hannibal, leaning near enough that their lips brush. “You may touch.”

He is released to do as he would, and Will turns his face to kiss Hannibal’s fingers before they slip away again. Then he ducks his head, sighing against the fabric of Hannibal’s pants before lifting it gently up, careful not to scrunch it or damage it, careful to slip so it folds on itself before he sets his mouth to the skin revealed to him, to the garter covering it in its elegant - albeit entirely unnecessary - way.

Will devotes as much time to worshiping this as he had the shoes, as he had the soft wool of the socks after. It is intoxicating, touching Hannibal this way, knowing the man sits entirely unperturbed, entirely put together just watching, enjoying the adoration that he knows he deserves from his boy - and Will is all too happy to give it.

Careful and warm, skin and fabric and skin again, licks and kisses and just brushes of his nose and lips over and over until his breathing shivers and Will grins, nuzzles against Hannibal, affection and devotion and possession of his own in every motion.

He licks again, careful to work his tongue beneath one of the black lines that slip over the skin, and takes the thing in his teeth, utterly delighted when he looks up, meets Hannibal’s eyes, and leans back, further, further, before letting it go to slap harsh against his calf.

It’s as if the snap resonates along the length of Hannibal’s body, drawing a shiver from him even as he hisses in warning between his teeth. His fingers curl against the arm of the chair, still for now but waiting, in contrast to the genuine pleasure that pinks his cheeks. “Insolent,” he breathes, leaning to watch as Will kisses open mouthed against the cool metal snap that holds his socks in place.

Will licks flat over the strap, running up to the band itself, looped around pale skin and well-honed muscle beneath. A sigh pulls from Hannibal despite himself as Will works his red tongue beneath the elastic, curling to lift it from his skin and bring it gathered between his teeth once more. His fingers spread over the tight material, skimming where it presses into Hannibal’s skin, unnecessary and beautiful, an ostentatious elegance utterly befitting of the man at whose feet Will kneels so willingly.

Another snap and Hannibal’s teeth bare behind a silent snarl, lip curving. Will nuzzles where the garter snapped, tasting the heat of it, and lifts his eyes as Hannibal looks down the length of obedient boy and asks, distantly, “Are you hard, Will?”

A nod, unhesitant, as Will sighs a laugh and tilts his cheek against the hard metal and soft straps. He runs a finger beneath it, down around the top of the sock, spreads his hands up Hannibal’s calf and tilts his nose against his leg.

“Do you want to touch yourself?”

“I don’t deserve it,” Will plays along, eyes up through messy hair, shirt slipped from his shoulder fully now, though held against him still with buttons just casually done up against his stomach. He knows the game, knows its rules. He knows, too, when Hannibal’s lips press together as one’s would when soothing a child that he is allowed, that it is expected, and that he should.

He slides his hand down between his legs to cup himself, softly rub as he continues to press himself close, kiss against wiry hair and warm skin and toned muscle. His shorts are soft today, black cotton that sit loose against his thighs, cheap and comfortable things he is fairly sure Hannibal pretends to abhor, as with most things Will wears in summer.

“Properly,” Hannibal purrs, and Will shifts, just enough, to pull the loose drawstring and slip his hand under the fabric to take himself in hand properly, moaning soft against damp fabric. He makes another sound, similarly helpless, and turns into the hand that gathers his hair into a loose fist.

Power is rarely force with them, it rarely ever was. Will is taking himself apart, kneeling before a man who does little more than quietly voice instructions and watch. He is content - sated - to do so, far more fascinated with Will’s submission, his abandon, than with tending his own arousal. Hannibal watches, his gaze hooded, as Will’s hand curls around his own cock, watches as the velvety, dark skin slips back enough to reveal the glistening pink tip, small and lovely.

“Did you miss me?” Hannibal asks, drawing a breath as Will arches forward, legs spreading against the ground to rock against his own hand, mouth pressed open and panting to Hannibal’s leg, elastic damp where his tongue has curled against it again and again. The boy nods, eyes closed and lashes laying dark against flushed cheeks, and Hannibal resists the urge to moan in tandem with Will when he rolls his hips and squeezes himself tighter.

“Did you miss me like this?” Hannibal asks instead, fingers tightening a little more in Will’s hair, to hear him whimper when he struggles to nod. “Perhaps it has been too long. I have let you think me softened by your wiles. More’s the worse for you then that I have missed you just as much, little wolf.”

“Please,” Will sighs, eyes up, even as his lips keep working against Hannibal’s leg, even as he keeps stroking, hard and pink and leaking just from this alone. He misses him, always, he misses him in every way the man is with him, from kind and contented to keep his weight on Will all day as they both read, to rough enough to leave Will limping, carefully dabbing iodine to cuts on his lip in the mirror at two in the morning.

He adores him.

“I missed you,” he says, quiet, earnest, sitting up higher to kiss against the fabric of Hannibal’s pants, now, to his knee, over that to his thigh as he almost lays in his lap, toes pressed to the cool tile of the balcony, knees set against it just the same. He grins, nuzzles against Hannibal’s groin and rests his cheek against him, looking up, sweet, little, entirely his. “I want more,” he pouts.

“You always do,” Hannibal sighs, a rough edge catching the end of it as Will nuzzles against the expensive trousers, where his cock throbs rigid beneath. “You are insatiable.” And despite his words, Hannibal feels himself giving way to his boy, as he always does - as, he imagines, he always will. Will knows just how to speak to him, just how to tilt his head and what sounds to make, to undo Hannibal entirely.

He cannot resist him.

God knows he’s failed every time he’s tried.

Hannibal stretches his leg, between Will’s own, a friction there as Will ruts slowly against him, and lifts his hand from himself to spread them both over Hannibal’s lap. He delights, in secret, at leaving wet spots with his tongue licked into the expensive material, but it shows when Hannibal tugs him up by the hair again and Will can only laugh.

“Have you behaved, while I’ve been away?” Hannibal grins against Will’s cheek, leaning low as he drags the boy upward.

Will continues the languid rolling of his hips even as he’s resting his weight on the arms of Hannibal’s chair, now, lifted further by the man’s hands against his hair. He shakes his head, smiles, bites his lip, the perfect play of the coy little boy, just enough to be enticing. Hannibal hums, affects displeasure as he pulls Will close enough for the boy to straddle him, uncrossing his legs so Will can sit properly, shorts open and shirt barely on, cheek deep pink from being struck.

“What did you do, awful boy?”

“I touched,” Will admits, curling against Hannibal as the man presses lips to his collarbones, his chest. “I swore. A lot.”

A tilt of his head and Will rocks up against Hannibal again, ducking his head to smile against him, steal another kiss as warm hands spread over his back now to hold him still. Will laughs, warm, pleased, shivers at the sensation being pulled from him and hums.

“Those damn sock garters, Hannibal, I swear.” Hannibal draws back enough for Will to see his arched brow, and Will leans in again with a laugh against his mouth. “Damn doesn’t count.”

Hannibal doesn’t argue, instead savoring the soft lips that spread against his own, now, rather than the expensive leather of his shoes, the wool of his socks. He skims his hands down beneath his boy’s shorts - no underwear, of course - and squeezes the plush curves of his ass, fingernails scraping deeply enough that Will whimpers, with pain and want alike. He imagines, as he did so many times when they were apart, Will spread bare beneath the sheets of their bed, fingers working deep inside himself, hand around his cock. Cursing his own pleasure, cursing Hannibal’s absence that the boy tried to fill himself, as deeply and as roughly as he could.

But for as much as Hannibal missed his boy, tells himself always that the next time he will take Will with him, their reunions are so worth savoring that he knows he will not, and instead look forward to moments like this, as if they had been years apart rather than only days.

“I appreciate your fondness for my formality,” the older man murmurs, teasing now with words and fingertips that fan far too softly across Will’s opening. “You were remiss when I left my suits behind,” he recalls. “I thought it time perhaps to bring them back, if only to see your eyes light up at the sight of them.”

Will shivers, twists against the hands on him in a gently demanding way, he does not disobey by touching or seeking more than he is given but he shifts, turns, adjusts, against Hannibal. Plays himself like an instrument on his fingers. He had missed the suits. Still does, once in a while, sees them hung up in the closet, several there that Hannibal could not part with, touches them and breathes them in before going on his way.

He enjoys his own, the few he has.

He leans in, enough to brush lips against Hannibal’s own, enough to nuzzle the stubble yet unshaved from his cheek, to press lips just behind Hannibal’s ear. “I actually, really like your shoes,” he admits with a laugh, feels Hannibal soften against him in a silent mirror of the sound.

But Will still wants, he still desperately needs to be undone, taken, filled, reminded, over and over again, with the man in nothing - or little - besides the damned garters, dark against strong legs, shifting as he moves. Will moans at the thought, the mental image, and arches back against Hannibal’s hand, rutting forward carefully when he’s allowed.

“I want you,” he tells him, same childish tone from before, same sweet little pout as he sets his hands on either side of Hannibal’s face and kisses him, “right now.”

“You deserve to be punished for being so disobedient in my absence,” Hannibal rumbles against Will’s mouth, hips rocking up against him. “Beaten until you sob.”

He snares Will around the waist with one arm, beneath his backside with the other, standing in a fluid motion to carry Will - whose limber legs snake around his waist - back into the study. The couch will do, the bedroom too far to bother with now when Will is rocking against him, cock rubbing hard against the older man’s waistcoat. With a kiss that finds Will’s bottom lip caught snarling between Hannibal’s teeth, he deposits the boy on the couch, stepping back once, another time, more than needed.

To watch Will thrust his hand down into his shorts and tremble, moaning.

To let Will watch him slip his coat from his shoulders and unfasten with patience and care every button of his vest, the shirt beneath it, baring himself inch by inch and staring Will down, a smile caught only in the corners of his eyes.

Will remains obediently still, stroking but unmoving otherwise as Hannibal removes the coat and vest, the shirt beneath.

“I’d almost hoped you would have suspenders,” Will murmurs, biting his lip to keep a laugh at bay as Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him and undoes his belt, the motion alone enough to make Will shiver, toes curling against the couch. But it is set aside with everything else, pants following, carefully worked over the shoes and socks and those damned garters as Will watches, eyes wide and cheeks flushed and smile large at the prospect of this.

It is comical, it is ridiculous, it is hilarious, and yet it is entirely what he had wanted, and he adores the man for it. Always. Indulging his stupid whims simply because Will had had them.

“About to be fucked by a man in garters,” Will laughs, and Hannibal steps closer, one measured step at a time.

“Language.”

“I don’t think I’ve been more turned on in my life,” Will giggles, but he is entirely serious, entirely earnest. Careful to slip his shorts off and kick them to the floor where they will not be in the way before setting his feet apart on the couch, tilting his head to watch Hannibal so near.

“A new low, even for one so afflicted as yourself,” murmurs Hannibal. He does, finally, step out of his shoes as he comes nearer, unwilling to risk harming them or the couch even if it would be in the process of splitting his boy in two, but the garters remain. Doubt flickers narrow through Hannibal’s eyes, but when Will leans forward and takes the length of him in a swallow, it fades with a groan.

Slender hands curl around his bare thighs, teasing the dark hair along their insides, down to the backs of his knees - earning a sensitive growl of displeasure from Hannibal above - and lower still to tease over the garters once more. Will’s cock bobs, untended as Will draws away to circle the head of Hannibal’s length with his flushed lips, before pressing downward again until his nose is tickled by thick curls of hair.

Again and again, cheeks hollowed, Will moans from deep in his throat and it’s enough for Hannibal to pull him free by a fistful of hair, lip curling over clenched teeth as he watches the long trail of saliva bridge from his cock to Will’s lips, and finally snap against his chin. Bending his head back, Hannibal ducks low and spreads his tongue across to taste the trail of spit, up to Will’s lips, but he pulls Will back from kissing him and simply breathes him in. Heady, musky arousal, sweat and dried salt from the sea, the acrid but very faint scent of semen, from where Will touched himself to release that morning.

Hannibal’s palm connects sharply with Will’s cheek, still gripping his boy’s hair tight. “One,” Hannibal reminds him, before he turns himself to lay upon the couch, and releases Will to watch him scramble on top.

Will kisses against his throat, down to his chest, almost devouring Hannibal beneath him as he sucks a nipple, bites against it, tugs it with his teeth before moving to the other, enthusiastic and horny and so glad he’s home. He rubs himself against Hannibal still, in careful little pushes where he straddles his leg before sitting atop him properly, sitting up to kiss Hannibal properly again, lifting himself above his cock as his hand strokes him up, twists and curls and brings Hannibal to growling before guiding him in and sinking down against him.

Will unfurls with a moan, head back and shoulders back and spine arched in his pleasure as his thighs tremble, his toes curl. He deliberately takes it slow, enough that he feels nails against the front of his thighs warning him to move faster. Will grins, laughs, sets his hands back against Hannibal’s legs, slipping his fingers beneath the straps as he settles fully against him, ducks his head to watch the older man beneath him.

“I missed you,” he repeats, his Italian still rudimentary but good enough, for the few weeks he had been studying it. Will shifts his hips in a languid circle as he pushes himself up, sinks back with a groan, biting his lip, releasing it as he watches Hannibal. “But fuck if I don’t love coming home to this when you return.”

The strike for his swearing connects with a pop of skin against skin, but Will laughs and it hardly matters, as Hannibal snares Will by the jaw to drag him down and kiss the filth from his lips instead. They find a rhythm in their undulations, though Hannibal drives up into his boy hard enough to push weak whimpers from him, and Will works himself with coiling hips down against Hannibal enough that the man is nearer than he wants to be so soon.

He releases Will with a shove, to tease red lines down his chest with well-manicured fingernails, along the outside of his thighs, inside, gripping harshly to keep Will steady atop him. A feral sound rumbles from deep in the older man, watching rapt as Will runs his hands back over Hannibal’s shins to snare his garters again, his body arching in a beautiful deep bend as he still his own movements to just let Hannibal bury his cock into him instead.

Will tugs against the elastic, stretching it nearly to breaking, and lets one slip from the crook of his finger with a laugh and a moan shuddering from him in one torrid sigh. He bites his lip, pitched whimpers rising high as Hannibal fucks hard against the boy’s pert ass, faster, faster, as if by doing so he can stop him from -

The sound that tears from Will as he lets the second garter snap against Hannibal’s skin is a wanton cry, almost more animal than human. Hannibal catches Will by the back of the head, yanking their mouths together to savor the breathless panting little noises that burst quick from his boy’s lips, and he raises his knees up behind Will’s back, heels planted into the couch, grinning with Will’s bottom lip held between his teeth as his boy reaches back to tug his sock garters again.

He is insatiable in this as well, as he is with sex, as he is with knowledge and killing and sating himself with silly things like incomplete meals. Will laughs against Hannibal, pants against him as he slips his fingers beneath the garters and just holds, contented to be fucked and feel the heat of Hannibal’s skin against his palms.

It is claiming, it is brutal, and Will loves it, every moment of it, mouthing against Hannibal’s neck as the man draws marks over Will’s skin, until Will turns to draw his nails over Hannibal’s just the same, almost purring his pleasure at the sound it draws from the older man. And then he turns gentle, almost kitten-like as he brings his hands down to rest against Hannibal’s chest, pushes himself to sit and rides him in slow, curling turns of his hips, one way, another, until Hannibal is breathless and impatient beneath him.

And so rather than let Will tease him, Hannibal lets himself go, a long aching groan as he snares Will’s hips in his hand and forces him down, forces him still, to feel Hannibal shudder stiff beneath him, twitching inside of him with little thrusts of release. He shivers as it slicks down from Will, pools hot against the dark, now sticky, hairs watching Will in feral pleasure as the boy grins.

Still hard for the moment, Hannibal rocks upwards again, pressing his cock deep into Will’s ass. Again, to feel Will’s body squeeze tight and hot around him. Again, until Will begs trembling, “Hannibal -”

“No.”

A curt answer, rife with delight that quickens Hannibal’s pulse when Will moans in want for it, his cock dripping clear against Hannibal’s belly.

“Please, I -”

“No,” Hannibal tells him again, scolding now, a sharp grin parting his lips. “You have already today, without my permission.”

Will laughs, but it’s a helpless thing, needy, as he bites his lip and curls his hands into fists against Hannibal’s stomach. “I could again, without your permission,” he whispers, but does no such thing, sits entirely still for a moment, hard and leaking and shaking with the sensation of Hannibal still within him.

A shuddering breath is released, and Will opens his eyes, wide and dark and pleading, though he says nothing at all. Instead he leans in to kiss Hannibal again, just once, soft, before sighing.

“I’ll be patient,” he promises, pulls himself free though not off the man fully yet. “Earn it properly, as you wish.”

Another kiss, another gentle genuine submission, before Will sits up and vindictively snaps a garter, hard, against Hannibal’s leg.

“You should wear these more,” he grins, delighted at the curse the sharp pain draws from Hannibal before crawling off him, laughing at the instruction that follows.

“Shirt off,” Hannibal presses a hand against his eyes and mutters something Will can’t hear as the boy obeys, as he knows the boy obeys. “Get your toy, if you’re earning your release, you terrible boy.”

Will laughs again, but pads off to the bedroom to obey as Hannibal lets his hand slip behind him and stares at the ceiling, a sigh drawn in and released, put upon and exhausted, despite how his lips tilt in a smile.

He does adore that boy. Considers how much more he will adore him making him mewl while doing the dishes as he is after they finish lunch.

Bespoke pleasure, bespoke pain. Just like everything he owns.


End file.
